Page 78 of Grown-Up Second Chance

“That and God. That your prescription doctor?” Why was I being so testy? It was a nice day, and Joe hadn’t done anything wrong.

“It’ll do for a start,” he said, not engaging in the barbs I was sending his way. “Just be patient, Di. Give it a chance and enjoy the journey.”

I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of him, the wispy falls behind him.

If nothing else, at least I’d have a memory.

~ ~ ~

Lunch was casual dining at the Mammoth Terrace Grill. I’d hoped our walk back would dispel my crankiness, but it didn’t seem to be working. Fortunately, Joe and his son had no problems holding a lively conversation so my reticence wasn’t noticed.

My old friend had done a good job raising Bug. It was obvious there was a lot of love between them. Not everyone got to experience that.

Then I realized the problem. I was jealous. Not jealous of Bug, but of Joe and the relationship he had with his son. I’d missed the entire experience.

Well, put a nail in the coffin of my relationship with Joe. How could we have anything more than a friendship if I was going to be pissed off that he had children and I didn’t?

I buried the remains of my chicken sandwich in its wrapper and stood. “I’m going out front for a bit. I’ll wait for you there.”

“Everything okay?” Joe asked.

“Sure.”

I walked outside and looked up at that big beautiful blue sky, the roof of my childhood. I’d spent hours lying on my back looking up at that sky, imagining what I would be when I grew up. In my teenage years, I’d looked up and planned my wedding to some nameless man, figuring the job thing would sort itself out. Trying to raise children and hold down a job seemed like an impossibility to me.

Now over half my life was lived and I have no recollection of the decisions I made—other than choosing Larry—that brought me to this moment. What was it someone had said? Life is what happens when you’re making other plans?

That suited my life to a tee.

I brought my attention to what was in front of me. The bison hadn’t moved far from his spot by the building. A few more elk had started to graze at the edges of the green lawn. One good-sized bull elk, not too old by the size of his antlers, had taken up his position where the Frisbee players had been.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted them: Two parents tugging kids that were five or six toward the big bull.

“Come now. We can pet the pretty elk,” the mom said in accented English.

What was it with these people and petting wild animals?

I made a beeline toward them to give them a piece of my mind. It would be a better use of my negative energy than snarling at Joe.

“Hey!” I shouted when I was in earshot.

The elk’s head lifted; the people paid me no mind.

“You can’t pet the elk!” I shouted.

Other people began to look at me.

The elk snorted, but then swiveled his head to peer at the small group heading toward him.

I started to run and wave my arms.

“Stop! No petting! No petting!”

Where was a damn ranger when you needed one?

I was getting closer to an elk than I’d ever been in my life, and I did not like it. Not one bit.

He snorted and turned back to me, following my path as I reached a point where I could intercept the family. I held up my hand in the universal sign for stop.

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